


A Debt of Gratitude

by noun



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Anal Play, Fisting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5946946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noun/pseuds/noun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill from the Captive Prince kink meme.  Damen fists Laurent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Debt of Gratitude

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from: https://captive-prince-kink-meme.dreamwidth.org/783.html?thread=2575#cmt2575
> 
> Request: "Because... fisting. Nicaise (who is still alive gdi) bets Laurent he can't ~accommodate Damen. Laurent's pretty confident, except he doesn't quite know how to ask..."

Laurent’s problem, Damen thinks, is that he approaches everything with the same infuriating Veretian attitude. Everything is a puzzle, a challenge to be overcome. Though perhaps it is more uniquely _Laurent_ to be so. Surely, he has seen this act before—he has seen every act, judged the worth, judged the pet receiving and the master giving. Damen is coming to realize that Laurent never had the boyish fantasies of being involved in the fantasy. So—detached, even now, even with Damen’s hand up inside him to the wrist, just to the edge of the gold cuff there, and his toes curling in the sheets.  
  
“ _More_ ,” Laurent demands, and Damen hides his smile by pressing his cheek into Laurent’s bended knee.  
  
“There is no more,” Damen states, and Laurent’s head presses back further into his veritable mound of pillows, hissing out his distaste, and the jarring movement that stretched his hole further as he pulls away from wrist to the width of Damen’s palm.  
  
“No, I—open your hand,” Laurent amends. His determination to—Damen cannot name it as a desire to make up for lost time, because Laurent would never do this with a pet—to try everything, to know Damen in every way he could is a vicious hunger. Damen cannot say, ‘I am here.’ He cannot say ‘I will not leave.’ He has not Laurent’s skill with words or the desire to see the bitterness play over Laurent’s face when he will spit out that Damen cannot promise that.  
  
It would ruin far more than the moment.  
  
Laurent is a diamond, polished, faceted, hard and cutting, and the flaws that run through him, the weaknesses, the ones he lets Damen see—they only make him more beautiful. There is little beauty in perfection, Damen thinks, and opens his hand, unfurling fingers. Not too much. Nicaise had emphasized that, along with oil.  
  
Laurent whines brokenly, prick twitching and succeeding in doing nothing more than smearing another line of seed through the soft white-blonde curls trailing up his belly. The look on his face is nothing short of enraptured. His lips are wet, parted, eyes opened a hesitant few centimeters, too breathless to do anything but curl his toes and arch his back in triumph.  
  
But these are not the only tricks Damen has come prepared with. He angles his hand so that he might press at the—it feels so inelegant to call anything on Laurent a _lump_ \-- behind his prick. Another sob from Laurent, still so sensative, hips thrusting upward as if to seek relief inside some unseen partner. Damen makes a low noise to soothe him, but Laurent is insensate. He rubs slow circles into the place that has Laurent nearly screaming for him. This will not be enough stimulation to come. Nicaise had warmed him about that too. What it does is make him spill seed without control over it, a steady leak that Damen takes his mouth to, lapping away. He makes a production of swallowing loudly, so that Laurent might hear, even in the midst of his hysteria. He knows Laurent likes it. He certainly does not mind the taste. It is Laurent.  
  
It is not as if he is unaffected by the display. Damen manages the worst of his need by rutting into Laurent’s silk sheets when the gasps become too much to bear. But he must keep his head, and keep his free hand to rubbing circles into the sweet arch of Laurent’s hipbone. He cannot allow Laurent to cross the line into begging. It leaves a sour taste in both their mouths, and Damen cannot ruminate too long on the _why_ , because if he thinks of the Regent (never uncle, never again) he will lose his desire and grind his teeth in sleep.  
  
So, before Laurent can moan out a _please_ , or anything more complicated than _Damen, Damen, Damen_ , he swallows Laurent down to the base, nose against his skin, and pulls his hand out until the widest part of his palm is holding his hole open. Laurent had been insistent about that part. His ass tightens around Damen’s hand as he comes. Not a copious amount, most of it milked out of him.  
  
Eventually, Laurent works through his tremors and stills, enough for Damen to feel it safe to slowly slide the rest of his hand free and beat a quick retreat to give Laurent the time he needs to come back to himself. Except—  
  
“Wait.” He looks over his shoulder to see Laurent—ruined, that is the best word for him, the path of tears Damen hadn’t even noticed falling tracked down his cheek, and his plush lips bitten red—raising his head from his mound of pillows.  
  
He obeys, though with cautious, tracing his way back to the bed. Laurent only uses his sharp tongue in bed to make them both laugh, but Damen is yet expecting a rebuke of some sort.  
  
“Fuck me,” Laurent says, his limbs splayed over the bed, indolent, lazy. There is a determined set to his brow. He does not make a request, he challenges, eyes intent on Damen.  
  
And Damen—Damen smiles, and comes to obey, draping himself over his lover, knees between Laurent’s spread legs. He is still hard, but it is always a joy to kiss Laurent, to slide his tongue into his mouth, suck at his lips, feel Laurent give in—if only by the most infinitesimal of degrees—and kiss him in return. Then, of course, he must thread his hands into Laurent’s golden hair, tip his head back, kiss his neck. Laurent wears high collars, he is free to bite and suck spots into the flesh there, and he does, normally he does, but a hand presses at his chest, and everything stops.  
  
He rolls away from Laurent as quickly as he can manage, and is met again with a look of frustration, which he can only answer with confusion. He is sure he resembles a kicked dog than anything else, and Laurent makes a gesture and a hiss of agitation, putting his weight on a folded elbow so that he can raise himself a bit.  
  
“No, I asked you to fuck me, not—I am warmed up sufficiently. And more than certainly _ready_ for you.” At Damen’s continued hesitation, his expression softens, and he reaches for him, enough that Damen is lured back, gladly pressing their foreheads together, noses bumping.  
  
“You are well?” he asks, and Laurent purrs an affirmative yes as they meet to kiss again. But Laurent breaks the kiss early to stare down Damen.  
  
“What’s keeping you from sticking it in?” There’s a suspicious note to Laurent’s tone, a purse to his lips. “You do not want to?”  
  
“Never,” Damen admits, and slides back between his legs, resting his arm to the side of Laurent’s head and coaxing Laurent to wrap his legs around his waist. Laurent still looks at him like he doubts his dedication. With his free hand, he lines himself up—watching Laurent all the while—and then hesitates. His thumb brushes along the swollen ring of muscle, the penetration from earlier too much to allow Laurent to close himself. His already aching cock pulses with his heartbeat. This is—he likes this. He did not know he liked this. Laurent’s stretched open, and Damen’s thumb swipes around the ring, seeing just how much he can pull without muscle responding before he notices Laurent’s face.  
  
He’s blushing, grit teeth, a tight jaw. Damen, ashamed, pulls his hand away, wipes the oil off on the sheets.  
  
“You dislike it.” Laurent says it as if he suspected it from the start, and Damen has only confirmed a truth. He shakes his head, bites his tongue in hesitation.  
  
“I like it very much.” Now he is the one blushing, looking away, studying the headboard. Gilt, of course, but Laurent calls back his attention.  
  
“You truly like it?”  
  
Damen can only nod. Leonine contentment settles over Laurent’s face. That’s a command if he’s ever seen one, so again he takes himself in hand and guides himself into Laurent’s over-stretched hole and  
  
oh  
  
he has to tug at the base of his prick to keep himself from coming like a boy within the first few seconds. It’s not like anything else. Women have a different feel to them, and there’s none of the tightness he expects with men. Laurent can’t even clench around him except for the barest of flutters. His hand did this—stretched Laurent out like this, and he has to bury his face into the curve of Laurent’s shoulder as he starts to fuck into him, choking noises into the forgiving skin of Laurent’s neck.  
  
Laurent’s prick lies soft between them, but he shows his pleasure in other ways—his hand dusting over Damen’s head, the way he wraps him in his arms, the soothing noises he makes.  
  
“That’s it, Damen. Like that.” Laurent _owns_ him, body and soul, in a way beyond even the best palace slaves are owned by their masters, but he has everything Laurent is too, he loves him so _much_ \--  
  
He comes thinking that, Laurent’s arms around him and his yell echoing through the room. This time, it is he who needs the time to recover. Laurent is permissible enough to soothe him through it, to be the one this time who goes to the pitcher—limps, seed spilling down his legs with no gate to hold it back, and that makes his prick twitch in nothing but pain—to fetch a cloth to wipe them both down.  
  
Good. Damen can’t move.  
  
Laurent is humming some tune or another. Damen can’t place it, and he makes the effort to turn his head to look at him.  
  
“Why?” Laurent makes the effort these days to explain things, but this time it looks as if he might not. The towel halts on his abdomen, and Laurent meets his eyes only after a pause.  
  
“Nicaise implied—“ And Damen can’t hold back the laugh. Laurent is tart, smacks him with the wet cloth. “Will you allow me to speak? –Nicaise implied I could not accommodate you—“  
  
Another bark of laughter, another smack with the cloth, and Damen does his best to sober and fails. Laurent gives up. Nicaise is still a force to be reckoned with, even with his scarred face and missing fingers. Damen knows Laurent is viciously proud of him, even if his hides it. Damen, too, is proud of him. Displeased with these small manipulations, but.  
  
“But you did.” Damen smiles, and draws Laurent into his arms. There is minimal struggling. “And I liked it. Especially the part at the end.”  
  
“Of course you did,” Laurent cuts back, and Damen only hums in response, kicking the soiled covers aside.  
  
“I like _you_ ,” Damen says, and that seems to shut Laurent up. Good. He is tired, and Laurent is warm.  
  
“Of course you do,” Laurent says, voice thick with sleep, already curling against him.  
  
Damen thinks he might owe Nicaise his thanks.


End file.
